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‘Oh Zanzibar, beautiful Zanzibar, lo how you betrayed us. Six nights of sweet slumber beside your silver shores and we three gentleman explorers have been robbed of all daring and decision. You hypnotised with turquoise Indian Ocean eyes and we did not – could not! – resist as you sheared off our manly mains of wanderlust. The vice of snorkelling, sarongs, and silly little wooden carvings (‘We give you cheap price’), replaced the virtues of tents, toll roads and to-do lists. Palates perverted by burgers now wretch at ration packs, and hitherto roll-matt hardened hides have been softened by your gentle quilts and comfortable cots.’
– Oliver’s Odyssey, XV

Zanzibar was a psychological speed bump that proved difficult getting over. Our time on the island felt as though our travels were drawing to a close, but in reality we weren’t even a third of the way through our journey.

Staring out across the turquoise waters, Davy summed up this sentiment when he mumbled through a cloud of contemplation: ‘Where do we go from here?’ And, after a thoughtful draw on his cigarette: ‘Drive another 11,000 miles, I suppose.’

‘Back to rain and unemployment,’ I heard myself mutter.

Driving 11,000 miles isn’t easy when you’re not in the right mindset – something that wasn’t helped by the disappointment of Arusha and the game parks we had hoped to visit from there (not to mention a brief but vicious bout of amoebic dysentery suffered by the expedition scribe). Our difficulty in becoming reacclimatised with the road was perhaps also a testament to just how varied and diverse the cultural and physical landscape of Africa is. Our journey to the Kenyan border, for example, took us from island paradise Zanzibar to sticky-streeted Dar es Salaam to mountainous Moshi in three short days – a lot to take in for three sun-kissed travellers.


But we were buoyed by our trouble-free entry into Kenya, and further still by the news that entry into Amboseli National Park was a pittance in comparison to its Tanzanian equivalents (for the record: USD 60 per person, KSH 300 for the car). What’s more, while the drive from Namanga (on the Kenyan border) to Amboseli was mercifully short, it was rugged enough to help shake us out of our beach-induced haze.

A morning at Amboseli further lifted spirits. In refreshing contrast to the two parks that we’ve previously visited (Ockavango Delta and South Luangwa) it boasts expansive plains and great visibility – a diet Serengeti, if you will. Set to the backdrop of Kilimanjaro, game is densely packed – within 30 minutes we were parked alongside two enormous lions.

Feeling well satisfied with our morning’s achievements (I’d also like to mention that I greased the prop shafts before we set off – a most manly accomplishment) we joined a sea of bobbing grey heads at the Serena Lodge for lunch. In today’s economic climate it seems that the only people frequenting Africa’s safari parks are retired with money stashed under the bed (not in an Icelandic bank account).

Once lunch was finished, Davy and I returned to the park while Giles elected to remain at the Serena for a facial. This, sadly, is not a joke.


Five minutes into the drive and it became painfully obvious that Giles had made the right decision – though perhaps not the heterosexual one. The dirty brown that had been lurking on the horizon with intent descended upon us, engulfing the car and reducing visibility to just beyond the bonnet. Our afternoon game drive had been swallowed up by the elements and the only wildlife we caught glimpse of was long dead – grinning and eyeless.

After an hour or so, we managed to find our way back to Serena, collect Giles’s glowing visage and head back into the dust and death in search of our campsite. Proceedings weren’t as easy as before, largely because the road was poorly marked and the air was still thick with dancing dirt. Within ten minutes, we were good and lost.

Male + car = obstinate refusal to ask for directions – that’s a given – but when we found ourselves surrounded by spear-brandishing Masai, it appeared we had no choice. For rhetoric’s sake, I’d like to say that they appeared from nowhere. In reality, they emerged from a nearby village that we’d stopped at. After politely refusing everything from curios to a guided tour of the village, we finally conceded we were lost and accepted a young Masai’s offer to guide us to the campsite. Before I knew it, I was sat in the back next to John the Masai.

‘John?’

‘Yes, John.’


Our brief journey with John provided an insight into modern Masai life. Not only do Masai have names like John, but it seems that nowadays livelihoods are largely dependent on tourism since their herds have been depleted by drought (John’s family lost 160 cows in three years). The drought also explained the countless carcasses strewn across Amboseli, and indeed the size of the lions we saw – hungry herbivores are easier to hunt.

What I initially thought to be a fall from grace for Masai to work in hotels or dance for tourists, I now see as testament to their tenacity. No longer are they the warrior race from days of yore, but they have nonetheless managed to preserve a great deal of their traditions and culture, while being savvy enough to adapt to changing and testing times.

We said our goodbyes and John ghosted away into the storm. Tents were pitched and water was heated. Sand swirled and spat against the tent while we three gentleman explorers huddled over steaming ration packs in the flicker of a temperamental lantern.

Zanzibar was long behind us, but solace was taken in the promise of adventure on the road ahead.